


Right

by yeaka



Category: TOLKIEN J. R. R. - Works & Related Fandoms, The Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Ficlet, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-06-01
Updated: 2017-06-01
Packaged: 2018-11-07 15:01:29
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,113
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/11061444
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/yeaka/pseuds/yeaka
Summary: Faramir still disparages the joy that Aragorn offers.





	Right

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ravin](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ravin/gifts).



> A/N: Fill for shadow-ravin’s “20. “I think you’re just afraid to be happy” Aragorn/Faramir” request on [my tumblr](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/) [from this list](http://yeaka.tumblr.com/post/160417565360/prompt-list).
> 
> Disclaimer: I don’t own The Lord of the Rings or any of its contents, and I’m not making any money off this.

After another long day of riding hard under the beating sun, Aragorn suggests, “Perhaps we should rest here for the night and bathe while we’ve the opportunity.” Faramir guides his horse to a slower gait, falling back alongside Aragorn, and frowns.

But they do stop. The sun’s already set, and the trail they’ve been following is long since cold—a few hours of rest will make no difference. They dismount together along the bank of a gentle stream, which ends in a quiet pool amidst the lush surroundings. They’ve traveled far enough that the trees are still tall here, the greenery, for the most part, untouched by the ravaging of war. It’s the perfect setting for Aragorn’s purposes: picturesque and peaceful. While their horses graze, Aragorn and Faramir strip themselves down, though Faramir is slow to do so.

He’s slow to follow into the water, but he does come, once Aragorn’s already waded into the middle, only about as deep as he is tall. He stays in place, aware the clear water reveals most of him. A waterfall behind him provides a gentle flow of lilting music. Faramir strays into the water with stilted steps. He’s more beautiful than their surroundings, more beautiful than any man Aragorn’s ever known. In the glow of the stars and the shimmering reflections off the water, he looks absolutely ethereal. 

But he doesn’t seem to know it, and he stops far short of Aragorn, his breath caught in his throat. Aragorn can see Faramir eyeing him as much as Aragorn indulges the other way around. He can’t help grinning for it. He knows he’s aged far beyond Faramir’s years, and he’s let himself slack in his image, even after his coronation—he’s in sore need of a shave, and his hair’s a scraggly mess. Faramir doesn’t seem to mind. 

Faramir ducks under suddenly, and when he emerges, he’s turned away, eyes off in the distance. His honey hair’s now glued to him, and he sucks in air as he pushes it away from his eyes. His taut body glimmering with water does nothing to belay Aragorn’s interest. Faramir rubs his hands over his shoulders, as though scrubbing them clean despite the absence of soap, and says, “We should return soon.” Aragorn tilts his head, listening, but Faramir doesn’t look back at him. “Clearly the orcs we sought are long gone, and Gondor needs its new king. We should not have been gone even this long.”

Aragorn holds back his ragged sigh. He dares to slink a little closer, pleased when Faramir doesn’t move away. He gently explains, “You know, the reason I insisted on joining you on this hunt, and on sending the others back early, was to get away from you seeing me as the king.”

Faramir’s face turns to him again, eyes now a little wide with confusion. “But you _are_ the king.”

“And I am a man,” Aragorn insists, drifting closer still, now moving in front of Faramir, enough to make Faramir’s breath hitch, close enough that he can feel Faramir’s warmth—the water’s cool, the air crisp, but _Faramir_ is a furnace. “A man with wants and needs, the same as you...” That little bit closer, and his knee brushes Faramir’s beneath the surface, slickly catching. Faramir’s eyes have fallen to his lips. 

Aragorn tilts and presses forward, catching Faramir’s mouth, opening for one full kiss. Faramir’s lips part for him, and he slips his tongue inside, tasting the familiar flavour he’s so _missed_ whenever they’ve been apart. But when their mouths close again, Faramir turns away from the next attempt. 

He mutters, almost in a hiss, “It isn’t _right_.” Aragorn nearly groans—he knows what Faramir will say, and sure enough, Faramir storms on, “You deserve a great queen, Aragorn. One who can give you an heir. One of noble birth and beauty like the stars—”

This time, Aragorn fails to contain his weary sigh. Faramir cuts himself off, as well he should; they’ve had this argument a hundred times. After a moment of quiet, save for the waterfall and the distant call of birds, Aragorn softly admits, “I think you’re just afraid to be happy.”

Faramir’s head snaps around. He wears a thick frown, though Aragorn thinks, perhaps, a part of him might know it holds truth. Aragorn pushes, “You grew so used to the late steward berating you that you never learned your own value. I’ve heard the tales. And you’ve fought all your life, against an enemy you felt sure would eventually defeat you. It was a tireless, thankless, endless struggle.” And now he’s lost Boromir, so there’s no one left to build him back up. But Aragorn doesn’t say that aloud; he still feels the loss himself all too keenly, and he knows how much it devastates Faramir. He continues instead, “Let _me_ bring you back up, Faramir. Never mind that I am the king and should have every say in my own choice. You have every right to be _happy_. Do you not think we could be so together?”

Faramir wavers. Aragorn can feel it. It’s a new point, one he hasn’t made before, and for once, Faramir doesn’t seem to have a response for it. He lets Aragorn touch him beneath the water, just ghosting one hand along his side, moving to cup his hip. Aragorn waits to pull him in. Finally, Faramir murmurs, “Anyone could be happy in your arms.”

Aragorn smiles, just in time for Faramir to close the distance again and cover it in a kiss. This one is chaste, but lingering, and when they part, Aragorn breathes, “You will stop fighting me, then? You will give us a chance?”

Faramir shakes his head. A little smile is growing on his lips, if a reluctant one, and it looks like he almost wants to roll his eyes. “It seems I have no choice; you refuse to see reason.”

Around his own grin, Aragorn teases, “I am a very demanding king, aren’t I?”

Faramir finally laughs, music to Aragorn’s ears. They share another kiss, both pressing for it at once. Another and another, and around the fourth, Faramir murmurs, “I have been here before, and I know a place where we can rest safely...” He’s already guiding Aragorn back, and Aragorn obliges, backing up and trusting Faramir to steer him right. It isn’t until he feels the waterfall at his back that he glances to look, seeing now the hidden grotto behind it. 

“We can be alone there, if my king insists,” Faramir promises, his voice now hushed and hoarse from Aragorn’s use. 

Aragorn chuckles, “Your lover insists,” and pulls Faramir through with him.


End file.
